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From: Andrew Roller <roller666@earthlink.net>
Subject: Sum 1 Summer of Sin part 1 of 20 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
SUMMER OF SIN
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter One
During my 13th summer, I was sent to live with my aunt. It was
either that or “Summer Fun.” I had come to loathe the latter. So my
parents, to get what they called a little ‘peace of mind,’ sent me to
bother my aunt. She’s 22. She had been married but it hadn’t worked
out, save for the divorce, which left her with enough money to let her
travel in high society. It also left my aunt with a debt, to my
parents. They’d let her stay with us while she was separating from her
husband. It had only been for a week, the year before, but that had
been, in the way families settle such matters I suppose, enough time for
them to be able to stick me with her for a month.
It didn’t hurt that my aunt was staying in a villa outside
Paris when my parents decided to send me to her. Perhaps a week in a
small, crowded house in suburbia equals a month in a large, country
villa in Paris where there are servants to take care of everything. In
any event, I showed up, my suitcase and my teddy bear in hand. I was
restless and ready to party, and I hoped she was too.
She was. My second day there, my aunt, Rebecca, sat out back
and watched me as I played in her pool. I had my new bikini on. I was
hitting around a beachball. She was wearing a bikini too, plus a large
straw broadbrimmed hat. She relaxed in a chaise lounge, smoking a
Viriginia Slims cigarette.
“Chloe,” Rebecca called to me. “Chloe. Come here a moment,
please?” she asked. I pulled myself out of the pool. I brought the
beach ball with me, sticking it under one arm. I padded over to her. I
was wet. She was smooth and dry and had just come from the house a few
minutes before. I stood dripping water down onto her. Not purposely,
of course. When I realized I was doing it I stepped back a little. But
Rebecca put out her arm and slipped it around the small of my back and
drew me close to her again, not minding the water. I had long blonde
hair and she reached up with her free hand, while still balancing a
cigarette in her fingers, and brushed back my hair from my eyes. “You
have grown since I saw you last year,” Rebecca said to me. My bottom
tensed with impatience and my toes figeted.
“Yes,” I said. Then, not wishing to pass up a chance to
exploit her attentiveness, I asked, “Can we go out this evening, hmmm?”
Rebecca’s eyes glanced from my face to my body. She seemed to analyze
me. For a moment I felt like a fresh cut of meat in the butcher shop;
my tits weighed, the width of my hips apprized, the smallness of my
waist. Rebecca put a finger up by my breasts and drew an imaginary line
right down through the middle of me, from my breasts through my navel to
the waistband of my bikini panties. The feel of her perfectly manicured
nail sliding down my front made me shiver. She looked up in my eyes
again.
“I have been invited to a party this evening,” Rebecca said to
me. Her eyes were deep and dark brown. They matched her rich auburn
hair. Mine were large pools of blue and she seemed to search them for
an answer to a question she almost dared not put to me.
“May I go?” I asked in a quick, impatient, high-pitched voice.
My question was met with silence. She ran her fingernail down my middle
again. Then, quietly, she replied,
“It is an adult party.”
“Ohhhh,” I said, disgustedly, thinking that she definitely
meant to exclude me.
“But perhaps you might come,” Rebecca said, looking again at my
hips.
“Oh, what will we be wearing?” I asked happily. I was
determined, with the adroitness of a child seeking a toy, to turn her
‘maybe’ into a ‘yes.’
“Swimsuits,” Rebecca said. “Bikinis.”
“Oh, wonderful!” I said. I was eager to show off my new bikini
to someone other than my aunt. Feeling a bit mischievous, knowing
Europe had some beaches that were more open than America’s, I asked,
“Will we be topless?”
“It is a private party, dear,” Rebecca replied. “Of course we
will be topless.”
I swallowed. I hadn’t quite expected such a direct, permissive
answer as that. But I was in France, after all.
“Oh, I like swimming parties!” I enthused.
“There will not be a pool there,” Rebecca said. I flinched.
My aunt’s eyes gazed into mine. I felt myself shiver. “It is
downtown,” my aunt said. “In a rented home. They have a small back
yard, but they do not have a pool.”
“But we will be wearing our bikinis?” I asked.
“Yes,” Rebecca said. “And jewelry. And gloves, like when one
attends the opera.”
I felt butterflies rise up in my belly. My aunt was so fine
and exquisite. With perfect poise, having just shocked me to my toes,
she took a drag on her cigarette, as simply as if she’d just told me
we’d be spending the evening at home, playing bridge.
“Will there be guys there?” I heard myself stammer.
“None your age, dear,” Rebecca said. She patted the flatness
of my belly. “You were not expected, I’m afraid. But I’m sure our
hosts, when they have a look at you, will be willing to let you attend.
We must have you looking your best, though. I do not want to have to
take you and then bring you back home within the same hour. Do you wish
to come? You may stay home if you wish.”
“No, I’ll come,” I said in a small, quiet voice.
“Very well, dear,” Rebecca said. She took another drag on her
cigarette. Then she looked at the cigarette and set it aside on a
drinks table next to her. “An unpleasant habit. I hope you never take
it up,” she said. She looked up at me, then at my swimsuit. She
reached out and straightend my wet panties. They were not crooked. She
seemed to do it out of a desire to touch me, appraisingly, as one does
to a small child one is dressing, and figeting over, in preparation to
going to church. “We must begin to get ready, then, if you wish to go,”
she said. “It is the ‘Beginning of Summer’ party, celebrated here and
there in the city by small groups of people.” She glanced up at my bra
and seemed to wish it gone. “The best parties are private, of course,”
she said. My nipples tightened. She reached up and pushed at one of my
bra cups. It was made of a soft, downy material. It was quite thin.
She flicked a fingertip over the protrusion of my risen nipple. I felt
myself blench. “We shall go into town and purchase a bikini of your
choice just for the party,” Rebecca said. “This is because the top will
only be worn until we get there. Then it is customary for you to
surrender it to the first man who asks. It is a rite of summer, you
see, the unfolding of the budded, newgrown flower, revealing the
nipple-like stamen within the petals, that the bees may come and feed
upon it, and derive their necessary nourishment.” She smiled. “Perhaps
it would be better as a rite of spring but it is warmer now. So it is
done at the beginning of summer, when everyone is able to get off and
enjoy themselves for awhile.”
Rebecca stroked my taut, flat belly. “You will also need
jewelry,” she said. “I want jewels for you that make you look
ravishing, and elegant, but we must watch the cost a little bit, for
hands move freely at such parties and not all the guests will be known
to each other. So we must choose jewels that make you look your best,
but that will not be mourned for too long if they are lost. And so it
is with the gloves. And of course your bikini bottoms.”
“We will be swimming naked?” I asked. My voice was high,
taut. For some reason I still thought we would be swimming, despite her
insistance that we would not be. Perhaps it was just my unconscious
association, never deviated from since childhood, that swimsuits were
worn when you swam.
“No, darling,” Rebecca said. “We will be in a living room.
Perhaps a little outdoors, but perhaps not. I do not know if the home
that has been rented has a backyard that’s properly screened from
view.” She smiled. “You would not wish to be seen, in any event,
except by those who will be in attendance. Because not only will you be
topless, my dear, and myself as well. But we will also have, put into
our bikini bottoms, our dinner.”
“Our dinner?” I asked. It was nearly a shout.
“Not yours, actually,” Rebecca said. “But, rather, everyone
else’s. As you chat, wearing your jewelry and your gloves, you will be
able to eat from the bikini panties of those you are chatting with.
Spaghetti is the customary dish. Spaghetti and meatballs. You’ll have
a fork, of course, to be elegant. One must always be elegant at such
parties, at least at their start. And you’ll sample the swimsuits of
both men and ladies, of course, and let them eat from your own panties.
So it will be rather messy, you see, despite everyone’s efforts to look
their best. So that is why you wouldn’t want this anyplace where people
might see.”
“How- how many will be there?” I asked. My voice quavered.
Rebecca pulled open the front of my panties and peeked at my bush.
“Ah, good. You are furred,” she said. Then, looking up into
my eyes with my panties still pulled open in front by her hand, she
said, “There will be perhaps 20 people there. Some I know, but some I
do not. The hostess, a woman named Katrina, will have screened them
all, of course. The men, you understand, will not be chosen because
their spirits flag. Quite the opposite. They will easily raise their
flags and keep them up all night. You have had a man plant his flag in
you before?” she asked.
“N-No,” I stammered.
“It is just as well,” Rebecca said. She let go of my panties
and they snapped against the lowest part of my belly, making a slight
sting. “So many girls have a boy do it, and he fumbles it, and they
surrender themselves but get nothing for it.” She brushed a finger
across the front of my bikini panties, as if feeling for my slit. “You
may find yourself with the opportunity to be popped. Both in the front
and in the rear. And in the mouth, of course, where girls often learn
first. So we must be on the safe side, my dear. If you should succumb
we must ensure that you do not become enceinte. Your mother sent me one
for the summer and I do not wish to send her back two. We will stop
also at a doctor, briefly, for some pills today. This will ensure that
you get nothing more than pleasure from the evening.” She smiled at
me. “Of course you understand this all applies to me as well.
Ritualistically, the purpose of the party dates back to a time when
females had certain fertile periods and certain infertile periods. So
the ‘Beginning of Summer’ party is when the female is first inseminated,
entering into another fertile period after a long winter of
infertility.” She patted my belly again. “You could return from the
party quite full. Especially if we stay the night. But you must let me
play chaperone, dear. If I find the men unsuitable we will return home,
do you understand? I am taking you along. I am not burdening myself
with you. I will not stay if the party or the guests are
unsatisfactory. There will be other times when we can stay the night,
if I decide not to, tonight. Nothing is utterly fixed. Do you
understand?”
I nodded, silently.
“Then let us see about getting you looking your very best,
dear. And myself also. We shall go and see what is what. We shall
tease a little and be teased,” Rebecca said. “Oh, and one other thing,
darling.” Rebecca took hold, very lightly, of the ties of my panties.
“Would you please turn around?” I did so. She released her hold on my
ties to allow me to do so. When I was faced away from her I felt her
pull down on the back of my swimsuit. She bared my bottom. Quickly I
glanced back over my shoulder. “This is Paris, dear,” Rebecca told me.
“Good, you have fine cheeks. The men, dear, and a few women also,
including myself, have a taste for the uses to which a bottom may be
put, other than just sitting upon it. With leather, you know.” She
placed a finger into a dimple on my bottom and I tensed under the
pressure of it. “In such circumstances, should they develop, the girl
is expected to be bad. Not in a disreptuable sense, of course. But in
the sense of being spoilt. One must misbehave a little. So if you see
me being slapped, or yelled at, and I seem to you suddenly childish,
this is the reason. Or if you see me slapping another girl, and
ordering her to do something, that is why. I do not know if it will
happen, or which I’ll be, if it does. And so you must think upon this
for yourself, also. You may find a man, or perhaps a man and his wife,
who wish to pamper you. But you must choose, of course. If you do, and
they have you do something, you must be wilful in doing it. Do not
simply do as they say. Relish the chance to be a bad girl. Enjoy
throwing a tantrum. Be as babyish and unmanageable as you please. And,
of course, expect them to take it out on your behind.” She patted
mine. My cheeks huddled nervously under her hand. “Not malevolently,
of course, but with a sense of admiration for what you’ve been given
back here.” She restored my panties. “You have a marvellous behind.
It will be well-loved, both with kisses and the strap, if you permit it
to be. As always it is your choice, of course.”
Rebecca rose from her chair. She was taller than me and she
put both her hands on my shoulders, as my father does. “Shall we go
inside?” she asked. It sounded less a request than a command. But her
palms were light on my shoulders and I could, I’m sure, have taken my
beach ball back to her pool if I wished. I could have resumed my
playing right where I’d left off, by myself, batting the ball around in
the water. I could have stayed home for the night, watching her T.V.
Instead, I nodded, said “Yes” very quietly, and went indoors with her.
“A little more rogue on her nipples, Didi. They will not
remain unseen at the party,” Rebecca called to the servant who was
helping me dress. I wore only bikini panties, but the jewels and the
gloves and the arranging of my hair, and my makeup, created quite a lot
of work for the maid. Rebecca, for her part, dressed herself, with the
maid scurrying over to her occasionally to see that all was in order.
At last, ceremonially, it seemed, for there was no question of its being
removed, the servant tied on my top. It was light pink, as light as my
nipples had been before the maid had reddened them to match the color of
my lips. My bra matched my panties. Not that it mattered much, I
thought. My jewels were ersatz opals, mounted in gold-toned settings.
A heavy but intricately worked necklace of them hung round my neck.
They lay in a double row of opals there. They were not quite as tight
as a collar, descending just slightly below my throat in front. But
they rose tightly around my neck on the sides and in the back. I had a
thin, swan-like neck. The necklace felt burdensome. Rebecca told me it
was to give the illusion that I possessed great wealth.
“And you do,” she added, with a knowing grin, glancing not at
my jewels but at my cloth bikini. My wrists were also hung with
jewels. These were clasped around the outside of satin opera-lenth
gloves. The gloves could be stretched above the elbow, and tied, but
Rebecca told me the fashion was now to leave them untied, that they
might bunch on the lower arms. I left mine untied. They gathered in
folds along the length of my forearms. They were grey and shimmery. I
wore long grey boots on my legs, up to my knees, that matched my
gloves. The boots had spiked heels. Around one of the boots, on my
right ankle, was yet another opal-encrusted jewel, a gold anklet. I
wore long, dangling earrings, quite slim and unobtrusive, not large in
width but thin as chains, that matched the gold-work of my opals’
settings.
“Opal is often called ‘Mother of Pearl,’” Rebecca told me,
checking my makeup and my hair and my jewels. “But don’t worry. We’ll
see that you don’t come home a mother.” She grinned. She looked
ravishing in a pure white bikini and glittering ersatz diamonds. She
had light brown boots and gloves. She turned me and pulled open the
back of my bikini panties. “Yes, a darling pair,” she said, and for a
moment I thought she was talking about my panties paired with my bra.
Then I realized she meant my two bottom cheeks.
We took a cab downtown. We wore long coats to hide how little
we wore underneath. The cab driver was knocked out anyway; we couldn’t
help but look ravishing, our hair was so perfect and our eyes and faces
glistened. We were happy and excited. And nervous, too. At least I
was. We both had light tans, carefully cultivated for part of the
afternoon at a tanning salon. They ensured our breasts, when they were
unveiled, would have just the right contrast against the rest of our
skin. A light, pleasant tan, framing bosoms that were utterly untouched
by the sun. The same was true for our privates and our bottoms. I
still wasn’t sure I wanted to show myself off down there, though.
Our destination was an old nineteenth-century home in the
center of town. It was an unassuming, two-story structure. It stood
along a sidewalk, without a front yard. But there was a park across the
street. The driver stopped and went to the door of the home and knocked
for us. Only when a woman came to the door, and opened it, did he come
and get us. This ensured that we would not have to wait on the street.
We went quickly inside. We did not want to attract attention.
The woman who met us was in her late 20’s. Her name was
Katrina. She had short blonde hair. She kissed each of us on our
cheeks, then took our coats. She herself was dressed in a light, summer
skirt and a blouse. But the blouse was sheer and I saw she had on a
bikini top underneath it. She wore the clothing, I guessed, to be able
to receive guests at the door without being unduly admired. Our cab
driver, all the same, had ogled her quite profusely, for she was a very
beautiful French woman, with long lashes and bosoms that could have
stopped traffic.
“Ah, you have come properly dressed, I see,” Katrina said,
smiling, as she put up our coats. She looked at me, then at Rebecca.
“She understands that she will be asked to remove the top as well, by a
gentleman?” Rebecca nodded. In the next room I could hear people
talking and laughing. She looked again at me. “Do you like spaghetti?”
she asked. This time it was my turn to nod. “And you realize we will
be putting it...” she paused. “Down here?” she pointed at her own
private, as her eyes looked at my pink panties. I swallowed hard and
nodded again. “Wonderful,” Katrina said. She turned her eyes to
Rebecca. “She has been popped already?” Rebecca shook her head.
“Not yet,” Rebecca said, and seemed a little nervous,
confessing it.
“Oh. I see,” Katrina said. She put a hand under her chin.
She looked again at me. “Normally one does not get invited to a party
such as this unless one has experience,” she said. “Of the male. You
are quite young, but quite well-developed too. You understand that men
will be at this party and it is not like a children’s party, where
everyone is watched and supervised. Here we can be a little free, you
know? Things may get slightly out of hand, although all the men have
promised, of course, to be gentlemen.” I gazed at her and nodded. Her
words, though she spoke English to me, were in a thick French accent
that made it a little hard for me to understand what she was saying.
“Very well,” Katrina said to me. “You are on your own recognizance and
of course let me know if you should become unhappy.” Just then, there
was a knock on the door. Katrina turned abruptly and took the handle,
but did not open it yet, instead saying to us, “Hurry! You must not be
seen.”
Rebecca took my hand. Jewelled and made up, our hair perfect,
wearing our bikinis, we joined the party in the next room.
What a sight greeted my eyes! A spacious living room was
filled with over a dozen people. Beyond it glass doors opened onto a
garden. Along one wall a fireplace crackled. There was a bar, and
three very comfortable looking couches, piled high with cushions.
Leading off from the room was a hall, where I guessed the bathroom was,
along with rooms, no doubt, where one could be ‘popped’ if one wished.
Closest to me, nearly bumping into us as we stepped within, were a man
and a woman, servants, I quickly realized, who were completely nude.
Both wore very elaborate, white 18th century French wigs. The woman had
a ribbon tied around her neck. It trailed upward, where it connected to
a balloon that hovered several feet above her head. The balloon was
black. Her nipples were lightly rogued and stood out like stoplights on
her breasts, for her skin was a wonderful pale color, from her toes
right up to her face. Her toenails and fingernails were painted red, to
match her lips and her nipples. Her pubic bush was on display, her legs
apart and letting it be seen as naturally as one might show one’s eyes
in public. I saw that her hair color was brown.
What really blew me away, though, was the wigged man. He was
nude also, and sculpted like Adonis. He exhibited an erect penis to my
eyes. Around it was tied a ribbon. Trailing upward, the ribbon
connected to a lavendar balloon that floated over his head. He and the
woman both wore ankle bells on their right ankles that tinkled when they
moved. The man, I saw, was holding, down by his thigh, unobtrusively as
he could, a slender black riding crop. The woman was holding a handful
of balloons. Next to them was a canister of helium.
“Welcome to the start of summer,” the woman said to myself and
Rebecca. She said it in French, but I’d learned just enough French in
school to make out what she was saying. She spoke the words naturally,
not abashed by her nudity, as if we might perhaps be entering a public
bath in Japan. Except this was a living room, with a bar and a
fireplace and sofas. “Would you like a balloon?” the woman asked.
Rebecca declined, but I nodded that I would. The woman smiled. She put
the balloon to her lips and blew lightly upon it. Then, when it had
inflated a little, she pinched it off and put it down over a metal tube
on the top of the helium tank. She pressed a button and the balloon
filled up with hot air. Then, removing the balloon, she handed it to
the man, who quickly tied it. There was a small table next to him, with
a vase of flowers, and he briefly laid his crop on the table to tie my
balloon. Then he passed it back to the woman, along with a length of
ribbon picked up from the table that held the flowers. I saw there were
more ribbons there, neatly rolled, waiting to be used. “Here,” the
woman said to me. She beckoned for me to lean in toward her. I did.
To my surprise she tied the ribbon around my neck. This caused my
balloon to float above her head, just like hers was doing. Except my
balloon was pink, picked, I guessed, to match the color of my swimsuit.
“Look!” I said to Rebecca. “I have a balloon.” I blushed.
She laughed.
We walked into the room and joined the others. I confess I
glanced back once, at the man, staring at his erect penis, and he saw my
glance. I blushed again.
In the room, hanging over the fireplace, like trophies, were
bikini bras. All of the women in the room were topless. Some wore
white wigs, like the servant girl. A few had balloons tied around their
necks. All of them wore jewels and retained their biknini panties. The
men sported bow ties, plus Speedo swimsuits. Otherwise they were
naked. Yet everyone stood around drinking and chatting, as naturally as
if we’d all been across the street in the park, enjoying the evening
air. Rebecca and I were handed drinks. At the same time, two men,
seeing an opportunity to make a notch in their (nonexistent) belts,
offered to take off our bras. We could not refuse, by the rules of the
party, regardless of our opinion of the man. Rebecca smiled. She
glanced at me. I found myself blushing an ever deeper hue. I let the
man who’d offered turn me about. He untied my top. Gallantly he took
it off me. My breasts spilled out and displayed their quivering tips.
A woman complimented me on the color of rogue I’d chosen for them.
Our bras were suspended by clips nailed to the wall, over the
fireplace. They joined a dozen other tops already hanging there. My
pink top was hung right next to Rebecca’s white one. We were bereft of
all save our bottoms now. Nervously I fingered the ties of my panties
while sipping my drink. I hoped I’d tied them tightly enough. I didn’t
want them to come loose. I’d look silly, I feared, retying my bikini
bottoms in front of all these people. Especially at such an elegant
party.
More people arrived. I chatted with several men and then
several more. I tried not to stare at the bulges they all seemed
afflicted with. Their crotches stuck out quite hornily, showing their
equipment in the lurid detail that is possible when a man gets erect in
a pair of Speedoes. The men, for their part, except for their rather
obvious discomfort, seemed not to mind that thier dicks were so
painfully evident to our eyes.
A man arrived with a dark tan, who caught my eye. He was
young. He had sandy blonde hair. The maid asked him if he’d like a
balloon. He accepted, and I was shocked by where she put it, as he may
have been too. She opened the front of his swimsuit. She did it shyly,
with a kind of blushing laugh. Then she tied the balloon’s ribbon
around his cock. The nude male servant held the floating balloon while
the maid tied it on our new guest. He walked into the party room with a
balloon floating up from the interior of his bulging Speedoes. Everyone
laughed.
“You’re funny,” I said to him.
“I had no idea she’d want to put it there,” the man said to
me. I smiled at him and he returned my smile. “You are young to attend
such a party, are you not?” he asked. He spoke with a thick French
accent. I nodded. Then I smiled again, hopefully putting him at ease
so he wouldn’t think me too young.
Then the real party began in ernest. With everyone present,
Katrina had the servants bring in a large silver bowl. They set it on a
decorative table, in front of a flower vase. Knives and forks were
passed out to all of us, but we were not offered any plates, or anyplace
to sit. The top was taken off the bowl. Within was a big pile of
sauce-laden spaghetti and meatballs.
Katrina wore a white, powdered 18th century wig now, plus a
bikini and jewels. Otherwise she was nude. Her blouse and skirt had
been removed.
“If anyone else knocks, it is too late now,” Katrina said.
Then she ordered the woman closest to her to come up to the bowl. It
was a young, redheaded woman, bedecked in jewels and a wig. Katrina had
her push her hips forward. Then, to a squeal from the woman, who tried
to suppress it by putting her hand over her mouth but could not, she
watched as Katrina pulled open the front of her bikini panties. I
watched too. I felt butterflies rise in my tummy as I watched,
openmouthed, as Katrina put a big ladleful of spaghetti and meatballs
into the tiny front of the woman’s panties. Then Katrina let go. The
woman’s panties snapped shut. But now there was a big, unsightly bulge
in her stylish panties, where the spaghetti and meatballs lay trapped.
Immediately the spaghetti sauce began to stain the front of her
panties. The redhead lifted one of her gloved hands and made to eat the
spaghetti out of her panties with her fork, perhaps to get it back out
of her as fast as she could.
“No,” Katrina said. “You do not eat spaghetti out of your own
panties. Other people eat it out of your panties, and you eat it out of
theirs. Just a moment while I fill up the others.”
A man was called forward next. Meanwhile, as the redhead
walked away from the table, a strand of spaghetti somehow slipped out
the underside of her panties and dropped on the carpet. It was a thick,
plush carpet, and I realized it would be a mess by the end of the
evening. No wonder the house was rented!
I watched with perverse glee as the man had spaghetti and
meatballs put into the front of his suit. His equipment, protruding
thickly from the front of his swimsuit, was pulling gaps open in the
underside of his Speedoes. As soon as the spaghetti was put into his
suit, some of it oozed through the gaps at the bottom and went spilling
onto the floor.
“Oh, you men are so messy!” Katrina scolded. “Turn around.
Just for that I’m going to put some in your back too.”
“What?” the man asked. But he turned around, and Katrina
yanked open the back of his Speedos. She dumped a ladleful of spaghetti
down his buttocks. He rejoined us, sipping his drink and trying to look
discreet, but leaving a big trail of spaghetti on the floor all the way
back to the bowl.
I laughed out loud when the guy with blonde hair, who was named
Steve, had his turn. What fun it was to see his swimsuit loaded up with
warm, icky spaghetti. He had gaps in his suit, just like the other man,
due to the size of his erection, and he left a trail behind him as he
walked back to me. Then I was called up.
“Hello, Chloe,” Rebecca, still as immaculate as a pin, said to
me. I tried my best to smile but felt horribly nervous. With just the
lightest touch of her finger, she pulled open the front of my panties.
Then she lifted the ladle. It dripped sauce and there was a big
meatball right in the center of it. She put it close to my belly, then
paused a moment, watching as I breathed. My breasts lifted and fell.
My tummy lay indrawn between my hips and my ribs, making me look
painfully skinny. “Ready?” Katrina asked. Somehow I managed to nod
that I was.
PLOOOP! Katrina dropped in the big ladel of spaghetti. I
shrieked. I couldn’t help it. I knew that big mess would make me look
like I had a penis, especially the meatball. When I looked down, sure
enough, I bulged just like a man. And the sauce was already staining my
panties.
“Here, let me have some. I’m hungry,” I heard a woman say.
She turned me and pulled me away from the bowl. She opened my panties
and dipped in her fork and twirled it. Then she lifted it, taking out
some of the spaghetti. She put the sphaghetti in her mouth.
Dinner was served. We all ate from each other’s swimsuits. I
ate from everyone’s, including even Rebecca’s, for it was the custom, it
was said, for everyone at the party to freely eat from everyone else.
Things gradually got messier as we went along. Sphaghetti, lifted from
the suit carefully as it might be, occasionally left wet trails up the
tummy or along the breasts. Faces became smudged, despite the liberal
use of napkins. And the floor, with everyone spilling spaghetti out of
their suits, became a mess. It seemed rather like we were all pooping
on the floor, I thought, given where the mess was coming from.
Spaghetti even spilled out of my own suit for, whenever anyone pulled it
open, some would fall out down below. It left saucy marks all down my
thighs. Some of the spaghetti itself stuck to the insides of my
thighs. It felt, I assumed, rather like sperm must feel, all wiggly and
small and sticky.
When I was sent up for seconds Katrina made me take spaghetti
both in the front of my suit and in the back. I was proving to be quite
popular to eat from. My bottom became a serving tray as well as my
pussy. Nonetheless, through the whole meal, the guests remained
jewelled, wigged, and good-mannered. It was not a wild, food-throwing
frat party
When everyone had had as much in the way of second helpings as
they wished (all of it out of someone else’s swimsuit), Katrina made an
annoucement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will, with your permission, have some
quality French entertainment now,” Katrina said. I was just returning
from the bathroom. I’d managed to pee without feeling too miserable
about the utterly sauced stated of my pussy and hindquarters. As I
emerged from the hall I saw the nude serving girl put over an arm of one
of the couches. Her hips were lifted, briefly, and a pillow was put
under her belly. The balloon was still tied around her neck. It
floated lazily above her head. She grabbed at a pillow on the couch and
put her face into it.
“Turn your head, dear,” Katrina told her. “We all want to be
able to see you as it is done.” Gently she reached out and moved the
young woman’s face so that she was looking at us. The side of her head
now rested on the pillow and she held on to it tightly. She bit her
lip.
My eyes were drawn to the serving man with the erect penis. A
woman untied the balloon from his cock. She put her fingers in a nearby
flower vase and then sprinkled the thick spiral of his penis with
water. The man, still wigged, as the female was, gasped slightly at the
cold touch of the water. Then the woman put her hand behind the flower
vase, it being within reach of where they both stood, and pulled forth a
bottle of baby oil. She squeezed it and squirted oil liberally on his
dick. All the while the man held a riding crop in his left hand.
I returned my gaze to the woman bent over an arm of the couch.
Katrina wet one of her own fingers in the flower vase and insinuated it
between the cheeks of the girl’s bottom. The girl tensed her heinie.
“Do not,” Katrina told her. The girl relaxed just a bit, then
let out a sharp cry of alarm as Katrina jabbed her finger within the
girls’ rosehole. It did not go in far. Just the sight of it, though,
made me contract my own bottomcheeks with fear. “He will be much bigger
than I am, dear,” Katrina scolded the girl. She smiled at us as the
girl tried hiding her face again in the pillow. “It is her first time
this way and she is nervous,” Katrina said.
Katrina withdrew her finger. She took the bottle of baby oil
from the woman who had prepared the man. She put the tip of it within
the cheeks of the maid’s bottom. The maid flinched. Katrina shoved the
bottle in deeper. The maid gave another short, sharp cry. “Bulls eye,”
Katrina said, smiling at us. Then, gently, she squeezed the bottle.
The girl hooted with terror as baby oil went squirting up her rectum.
Yet, except for burying her face in the pillow, she did not try to
resist, save for a natural clenching of the cheeks of her bottom.
Steven put his arm casually around my waist.
“You are experienced in this?” he asked me.
“No,” I breathed. He let his hand glide down over my pantied
bottom. My cheeks were tense. Perhaps he felt their apprehension, for
he said, quietly, “I see.” The bulge in the front of his
spaghetti-stained Speedos grew bigger still.
“You must have the crop now, dear. There is no other way. You
are too tight for him,” Katrina said to the girl. She put the baby oil
back behind the flower vase. She walked over to the girl and made her
present her eyes to us again. The other woman guided the man forward.
Then she realized what Katrina had said and with a small, quiet “Oh!”
she let go of the man.
“Madam, am I to apply it?” the man asked. He motioned with his
crop.
“Yes,” Katrina said. She sat down on the couch by the girl’s
head. She drew her wrists out more in front of her and then clasped
them between her hands to hold them. “I’ll hold her hands. Go ahead,
dear. It is your cock going up her so you may as well be the one to
warm up her behind.”
“Oh!” I cried, for the crop came down at once, striking the
poor girl as if she were some animal. As soon as I saw it, the rudeness
of it, the harshness, I turned my head and buried it in Steve’s chest.
He patted my bottom with his palm.
“It is necessary,” he whispered to me. But he did not make me
watch. He let me find refuge in the hairs of his chest.
Several blows were given. They were measured, sadistic, I
thought, and the young woman must have thought so too, for they brought
sobbing cries from her. I put my hands over my ears.
“Oh, please! Take me upstairs,” I said to Steve. I knew there
were rooms both downstairs and upstairs and I hoped not to be able to
hear her upstairs.
“What?” Steve asked.
“Take me upstairs,” I said again. He lifted one of my hands
off of my ear and guided me from the room. I felt all eyes had turned
to stare at me, but I did not look back at them. Perhaps Steve looked
at Katrina for I heard her say, “Yes. Please. Go ahead.”
We walked up the stairs together. Down below I could hear more
cries from the girl as the crop was made to strike her.
“Come, we will shower together,” Steve told me. He did not
ask. He simply guided me into a bathroom and closed the door. He
turned me to face him. He knelt and untied my panties. He kissed my
dell.
“You have a very beautiful pussy,” Steve whispered. Then he
stood and turned me, still wearing his Speedos. He faced me toward the
shower and palmed my bottom. He gave it a gentle pat. Downstairs I
thought I heard the woman cry out again. But it was distant, the door
now between us and her suffering. “You have not been taken anyplace?”
Steve asked me. I looked back over my shoulder and nodded that ‘no,’ I
had not been.
He pulled down his Speedos. I gasped as his cock popped into
view. A woman had earlier untied the balloon from it, so she could eat
without the ribbon floating up in her way. It stuck out like a big log,
quivering and heavy, but with dew oozing from its tip. And, of course,
it was smeared with spaghetti sauce. A meatball fell out of his
Speedoes and onto the floor. He stepped out of them.
“Have you learned to suck?” Steve asked me.
“No,” I said.
“Get down. Put your knees on the floor. I don’t want to waste
this fine spaghetti sauce. Like it off my penis.” He seemed to say
‘please’ and yet he did not, actually. Instead he pushed hard on my
shoulders, making me kneel on the rug. He drew me close to him and made
me stick out my tongue. I did it very tentatively, my lips quivering as
I opened them. I was conscious of saliva pooling on my tongue. He made
me lick the tip of his cock. Then he made me lick off all the goo that
was dripping out of it, but as soon as I did, more appeared. He had me
lick the crown of his penis, all around. Then he slowly introduced the
full crown into my mouth. Its thickness made my cheeks bulge.
“Ah, that is good,” Steve said. He tried to make me take more
of him. I gagged. I could not. “It is alright,” he said. “It is your
first time.” He had me suck him for awhile, though, pehraps as penance
for not taking more of him, just the head of his cock in my mouth, as we
heard, through the door, the suffering of the woman downstairs. With
each of her screams I gave a small jerk. Steve seemed to enjoy my
jerkings. I sucked on his penis as one does a straw, except he was
about ten times bigger and he had a tendency to wiggle it around a bit
as I sucked. A straw doesn’t have a life of its own. His did. Then,
suddenly, after many minutes, he gave a sudden, awkward groan and
withdrew himself from my mouth. I liked my lips. I felt experienced.
“Is that it? Did we just have sex?” I asked Steve naively.
“No. Not yet,” Steve laughed. “Stand up. We’ll get in the
shower and then I’ll show you what else we can do.”
30
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